No heat, still warm
Steve Harrington x Fem!reader
In which : Your parents are out of town and you go to babysit the kids, but they find out that your heater is broken, so they call Steve to help you.
Warnings: no use of y/n, "enemies" (not really) to lovers, comfort, fluff, sweet steve, reader is a bit unkind to steve, dustin being a helpfull kid, kissing
an: this is my first post on tumblr, english is not my first language so if you find any mistake please be kind <3 also, i'm open for requests if anybody would like to write one. Enjoy! :) <3
Words: 4,2K
The road to Dustin Henderson’s house is almost completely empty. Snow lines the edges of the street in uneven piles, old and gray, hardened by days of cold that never seem to lift. Your hands are stiff on the steering wheel even with the heater blasting at full power, your breath fogging the windshield just enough to be annoying.
You’re wearing too many layers. You know it.
A thick coat. A scarf wrapped twice around your neck. Gloves. Two sweaters underneath. Thermal leggings under your jeans. Wool socks that itch just a little. But you’ve learned that cold creeps in quietly. It settles into your bones and refuses to leave. So you prepare for it.
Dustin’s house comes into view, lights glowing warmly through the windows, and something in your chest tightens at the sight. You park, turn off the engine, and sit there for a second longer than necessary, gathering yourself. Just a visit, you tell yourself.
Just the kids. Just games. Just a few hours.
You take off your gloves and ring the doorbell. It’s Dustin who opens it, hair wild, wearing an oversized hoodie and socks that definitely don’t match.
“Hey!” he grins then immediately stops.
He reaches out instinctively, grabbing your hand to pull you inside, and the moment his fingers touch your skin, he yelps and jumps back like he’s been shocked. “Jesus...your hands are freezing!”
“Sorry. It’s cold out.” you pull them back quickly, embarrassed.
" It’s not that cold.” Dustin squints at you, suspicious.
"You know why exactly I'm cold" You look at him deep in the eye, stepping inside and closing the door behind you.
“You should’ve asked for help.” he watches you for a second too long, then shakes his head.
“I did.”
“Oh yeah, but not Steve.”
“Dustin...”you sigh, starting to unbutton your coat.
“Seriously, he would help,” he insists, already backing away toward the stairs. “Come on, everyone’s in the basement.”
You slip off your coat, hang it by the door, and follow him down, trying not to think about the way your whole body aches.
The basement is loud. Familiar. Comfortably chaotic. Mike, Lucas, Max, everyone’s already mid-game, arguing about rules, shouting over each other. The warmth hits you immediately, a stark contrast to the cold you’ve been carrying around all day. You relax a little.
“Guys,” Dustin announces proudly, like he’s presenting evidence. “She's here.”
A few greetings are tossed your way. You wave, smiling, and settle onto the edge of the couch beside El. Dustin plops down to your other side then leans in close.
“You didn’t tell them, right?” you murmur under your breath.
“Tell them what?” he frowns.
“You know what,” you hiss. “Please. I asked you not to.”
“Oh,” he says, way too casually. Then, louder, much louder “About the thing, that your heater is broken and your parents are out of town?”
The basement goes quiet in a way that feels unnatural. Not complete silence, there’s still the low hum of the heater, the faint whirr of the old lamp in the corner, but the kids stop. Conversations die mid-sentence. Dice stop rolling. Someone’s chair scrapes softly against the concrete floor.
You’re painfully aware of the way every single pair of eyes slowly turns toward you.
Dustin looks entirely too pleased with himself.
“What?” Max says first, lowering her book and fixing Dustin with a sharp look. “What do you mean, broken?”
You squeeze your hands together in your lap, fingers stiff, nails biting into the wool of your gloves you still haven’t taken off. Your shoulders curl inward without you even noticing, instinctively trying to make yourself smaller.
“How long?” Mike asks, finally looking up now, concern already etched into his face.
Lucas frowns, popcorn halfway to his mouth. “Wait. Like... broken broken?”
You open your mouth to answer, to downplay it, to brush it off like you always do.
“It’s not a big deal,” you start.
“It is a big deal,” Dustin cuts in immediately, louder, sharper. He turns toward you fully now, eyes blazing with something between frustration and panic. “You didn’t tell them because you knew they’d freak out.”
“Dustin…” you glance down at your hands.
“No,” he says firmly. “No, don’t do that.”
“Do what?” you ask quietly.
“That thing where you pretend everything’s fine when it clearly isn’t,” he snaps. “You’re freezing. You’ve been freezing for days.”
Max is already on her feet, crossing the room in long strides. She stops in front of you, hands on her hips, eyes scanning you openly now, your layers, your posture, the faint tremor you can’t quite suppress.
“Jesus,” she mutters. “How are you not sick already?”
“I’m fine,” you repeat, softer this time. “It’s temporary.”
“You can’t just… live without heat.” Mike shakes his head slowly.
“I’m not living without it,” you say quickly. “It’ll get fixed. My parents are back soon.”
“When?” Lucas asks.
You hesitate. That’s all it takes.
“When,” Dustin echoes, voice dropping dangerously low.
“…Soon,” you say again, avoiding his gaze.
“That’s not an answer.” Dustin lets out a harsh laugh.
“Dustin, please,” you whisper, reaching out to touch his arm, but he pulls away like your touch burns.
“No. I’m done with ‘please,’” he says. “You’re not doing this alone.”
“I didn’t ask for help,” you murmur.
“That’s the problem,” he shoots back instantly. “You never do.” The words land harder than you expect. You flinch.
“Hey”Max turns on him.
“No,” Dustin interrupts again, relentless now.
“You know I’m right. You didn’t tell anyone. Not Steve, not even them.” He gestures wildly around the room. “You just… decided you’d deal with it.”
Your throat tightens. “I didn’t want to bother anyone.”
“You’re not a bother.” Mike’s expression softens immediately.
“You don’t get to decide that,” Lucas adds, more gently than usual.
“Steve can fix it.” Dustin paces now, hands running through his hair. Your stomach drops like you’ve missed a step going downstairs.
“No,” you say immediately, more force than you usually allow yourself. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?” Dustin stops pacing and spins on you.
“Because I said so.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“I don’t need—”
“Steve fixes things,” Dustin says again, voice rising, almost desperate. “That’s literally what he does.”
“I can manage,” you insist, even as your teeth chatter faintly.
“You’re managing with, what, five blankets and three sweaters?” Max folds her arms.
“Guys. Please. I’m okay.” Your face burns. You rub your temples, overwhelmed.
Dustin stares at you for a long moment, jaw clenched, eyes shining.Then he pulls goes to the phone.
“I’m calling him.”
“Dustin...don’t,” you say quickly, panic creeping in. You half-rise from the couch, reaching for him. “Please. I’m asking you.”
He hesitates just a fraction of a second.
Then presses the button. You sink back onto the couch, defeated, heart pounding as the phone rings. Too late.
Steve arrives faster than you expect.
You hear his car before you see it: the familiar low rumble pulling into the driveway, tires crunching softly over frozen gravel. Dustin is already halfway up the basement stairs, practically vibrating with triumph.
“He’s here,” he announces, like he’s just summoned a superhero.
Your stomach twists. You don’t go upstairs right away. You sit there for a second longer, elbows on your knees, staring at the floor, already tired and nothing has even happened yet. Eventually, you force yourself up and follow.
Steve Harrington fills the doorway like he always does, jacket zipped up, hair slightly flattened by a beanie he clearly hates wearing. His cheeks are pink from the cold, eyes immediately scanning the room.
“Hey,” he says, breathless. “Dustin said—”
“I’m fine,” you cut in too quickly.
Steve’s gaze snaps to you. He pauses mid-step, really looks at you this time. The layers. The stiff way you’re standing. The way your shoulders are hunched like you’re bracing against something invisible.
“…Right,” he says slowly. “You look great.”
Dustin groans. “Steve.”
“I mean, not great,” Steve corrects immediately. “I mean...cold. You look cold.”
“We’re not doing this here.”You cross your arms.
Steve exhales through his nose, nodding.
“Okay. Okay. Let’s go see the heater.”
You grab your coat, pull it on too fast, fingers fumbling with the zipper, and head straight for the door like if you don’t stop moving, no one can stop you. The cold outside slaps you across the face the second you step out, sharp and unforgiving, but you welcome it. It gives you something solid to focus on.
Steve follows a moment later.
“Hey,” he calls, not loud, not angry. “Where are you going?”
“My car,” you answer without turning around.
“We’re going to the same place.”
“I know.”
“So why—”
“I want to drive myself.”
Your boots crunch against the frozen ground as you walk faster, shoulders squared, jaw tight. You hear his footsteps behind you, matching your pace whether you want them to or not.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” he says.
“I’m not proving anything.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
You stop suddenly and turn to him. The porch light casts harsh shadows across his face, catches in his hair, makes his breath visible in short clouds.
“Because I don’t want to sit in your car and feel like I owe you something,” you snap.
“Owe me what?” Steve blinks.
“Concern. Gratitude. Compliance,” you list sharply. “I said I’d let you look at the heater. That’s it.”
His expression tightens, not offended, but frustrated, like he’s trying to speak a language you keep refusing to hear.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he says slowly.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
You turn away before he can respond and head to your car. The cold has settled deeper now. It seeps through the soles of your boots, creeps up your legs, makes your hands ache as soon as you grip the door handle. You slide into the driver’s seat, slam the door shut, and sit there for half a second, staring at the steering wheel like it’s about to betray you.
You turn the key. Nothing. You frown and try again. The engine coughs weakly, a sad, hollow sound that dies almost immediately.
“No,” you mutter, twisting the key harder.
Still nothing. Your chest tightens, irritation flaring hot against the cold. You try again. And again. Each failure feels more personal than the last.
A knock against the window makes you flinch.
Steve stands outside, arms crossed against the cold, face drawn with concern he’s clearly trying to keep in check.
“You okay?”
“Yes,” you say too fast. “It just needs a second.”
He doesn’t argue. Just watches.
You try again. The engine sputters, then falls silent. The quiet afterward feels loud. Exposing.
You let your forehead drop against the steering wheel for a brief, humiliating moment before straightening.
Steve opens the car door without asking.
“You shouldn’t keep doing that,” he says gently. “You’ll flood it.”
“I didn’t ask for advice.”
“I know.” You swing your legs out of the car, standing up too quickly, dizziness washing over you for a split second. You hide it by shoving your hands into your pockets.
“It’s the battery,” you say. “Or the starter. I’ll call someone.”
“At nine at night. In this weather?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“It’s the cold.” Steve exhales slowly through his nose.
“Everything is always ‘the cold’ with you.”
“Because everything is the cold,” he snaps back, then immediately reins it in. “Your car’s been sitting out all day. It’s not going to start.”
You shake your head. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“You don’t get to decide what I do next.”
Steve steps closer, lowering his voice. “I’m not deciding. I’m telling you what’s happening.”
“And I’m telling you I don’t need you to.”
There’s a long pause.
Snow crunches under his boots as he shifts his weight. His expression changes, not angry, not annoyed, but tired in a way that mirrors how you feel.
“Get in my car,” he says finally.
“No.”
“Just to get there.”
“No.”
“You’re freezing.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.” The word lands hard between you.
“Why do you always do this?” You wrap your arms tighter around yourself, teeth clenched.
“Do what?”
“Step in. Take over. Decide that you know better.”
“Because sometimes I do.” Steve’s voice softens, almost painfully so.
“Wow.” you laugh, sharp and bitter.
“I’m not trying to control you,” he insists. “I’m trying to get you out of the cold.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“I know,” he repeats. “But you’re still here. And your car still isn’t starting.”
The silence stretches. Your breath fogs in front of you, each exhale shaky, visible proof of what he’s been saying all along. Finally, you look at his car. Then back at yours.
“Fine,” you say tightly. “But I’m not riding with you because I need you.”
Steve opens the passenger door and steps aside.
“I’ll take what I can get,” he says quietly.
You hate how gentle that sounds. And you hate even more that you climb in anyway.
~°~
The moment you step inside your apartment, the cold greets you like it’s been waiting.
Not the sharp kind that hits you outdoors, but something worse, something stale and settled, clinging to the walls and the furniture, crawling under your skin instead of shocking it. The air feels unmoving, heavy, like warmth hasn’t existed here in days and doesn’t plan on returning anytime soon.
Steve notices immediately. He doesn’t comment at first. He just pauses in the doorway, hand still on the frame, shoulders squaring as if he’s bracing himself against the temperature. His eyes sweep the room slowly, taking everything in: the extra blankets folded with too much care, the space heater unplugged in the corner, the mugs on the table. You feel exposed under his gaze.
“It’s usually better,” you say quickly, even though you know how weak it sounds. “I mean, during the day. Sometimes.”
Steve hums softly, noncommittal, already crouching by the radiator. He sets his tools down carefully, like the noise might somehow disturb the fragile stillness of the place.
You lean against the counter, arms crossed, trying not to watch him too closely. Trying not to let yourself hope.
The radiator is cold beneath his hands. He tests it anyway, checks the valve, twists it gently, presses his ear against the metal like he’s listening for a heartbeat that isn’t there.
Nothing. He frowns, adjusting his grip, muttering under his breath as he works. You catch pieces of it, technical words, half-finished thoughts, the low frustration in his voice. Time stretches.
Your feet start to ache. Then your legs. Then the familiar, bone-deep weariness that’s been following you around for weeks settles heavier in your chest. Steve finally sits back on his heels.
“That’s… not good,” he says.
“What does that mean?” your stomach tightens.
“It means it’s not just a stuck valve,” he explains slowly, pushing himself to his feet.
“Something’s wrong deeper in the system. Boiler, maybe. Or a frozen line.”
You nod like you understand, even though the words blur together.
“Can you fix it?” you ask anyway.
Steve hesitates. That alone is answer enough.
“I can’t,” he admits. “Not tonight.”
The silence that follows feels loud.
“Okay.” you swallow.
He watches you carefully, like he’s waiting for an argument. When it doesn’t come, he looks almost concerned.
“You can’t stay here,” he says gently.
“Yes, I can.” the response is automatic. Reflexive. You’ve said it so many times it barely feels like a choice anymore.
“Not like this.” Steve shakes his head.
“I’ve been doing it,” you insist, forcing more confidence into your voice than you feel. “It’s not ideal, but it’s temporary.”
“That’s not a plan,” he counters. “That’s just surviving.”
The word hits harder than you expect.
You turn away, focusing on the window, on the frost creeping along the edges of the glass. “I didn’t ask you to worry about me.”
“I know,” Steve says quietly. “I’m doing it anyway.”
There’s a beat. Then another. You feel your stomach lift, your breathing gets heavier as you stare at Steve. This old feeling that won't leave you alone. You hate how you feel about Steve.
“You could stay with me,” he offers. “Just until it’s fixed.”
“That’s not happening.” you laugh softly, more breath than sound.
“Why not?” Steve asks as he furrows his eyebrows.
“Because it’s a bad idea.”
“You’re cold. Tired. And stubborn. Which part of that makes this a bad idea?” He tilts his head slightly.
“All of it.” you glare at him.
"You realize you just described me too, right?” Steve’s lips twitch despite himself.
The tension cracks, just a little. You sigh, rubbing your face with your hands. Everything feels heavy. Your limbs. Your thoughts. The argument you know is coming.
“I don’t want to be in the way,” you say quietly.
“I don’t want to take up space.”
Steve steps closer, not invading, but present. Solid.
“You already do,” he says, softer now. “And it’s fine.”
That almost feels like flirting. Or maybe it just feels like kindness you’re not used to.
“I’ll be okay. I can bundle up. It’s just a few days.” You shake your head.
“And if you get sick?”
“I won’t.”
“And if you do?”
You don’t answer. The silence stretches until it’s uncomfortable, until your shoulders sag under the weight of it.
“I’m tired,” you admit finally. “I don’t have it in me to argue.”
Steve studies you for a long moment. Then he nods.
“Okay,” he says. “Then don’t.”
“Fine.” You close your eyes.
“Fine?” His eyebrows lift.
“I’ll stay with you,” you murmur. “Just… for now.”
A small smile curves at the corner of his mouth, warm, relieved, restrained.
“I’ll make soup,” he says. “You look like you need it.”
“You always do that.” you huff weakly.
“Do what?”
“Take care of people before they ask.”
“Someone has to.” Steve smiles softly. "Pack your things, I'll wait in the car" and with that he leaves with his stuff in his hands.
~°~
Steve’s house is warm in a way that almost hurts. The kind of warmth that sinks into your skin instead of sitting on the surface. It’s steady, constant, unapologetic, like it’s always been there and never questioned whether it deserved to be. The moment the door closes behind you, the tension in your shoulders loosens just a fraction, and you hate how immediate the relief is.
Steve notices. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes flick to you as you shrug off your coat, the movement a little stiff, like your body hasn’t quite caught up with the idea that it doesn’t need to brace itself anymore.
“Guest room’s this way,” he says, voice casual, like this is no big deal at all. It feels like a big deal to you.
You follow him down the hallway, every step echoing too loudly in your head. The house smells faintly of laundry detergent and something warm, coffee. It smells lived-in. Safe. That thought makes something tight in your chest loosen in a way that scares you.
Steve opens a door and flicks on the light.
The guest room is simple. Clean. A neatly made bed, an extra blanket folded at the foot. A small lamp on the nightstand. Nothing overwhelming, nothing impersonal either. It looks like a space that’s waiting for someone, not avoiding them.
“You can take as much space as you need,” Steve says, leaning against the doorframe.
“Bathroom’s down the hall, but...” He hesitates. “There’s no shower in here. You can use mine if you want.”
You nod. “Okay.”
Steve looks at you and can see that your body still hasn’t warmed up. His gaze drops to your hands, he swallows, then pushes himself off the doorframe and looks back at you.
“I have a really warm sweatshirt,” he says, his big eyes fixed on your face. “I can give it to you if you want.”
“No thanks, I’ll be fine without it,” you say, taking your bag from his hand and walking farther into the room, setting it down in front of the wardrobe. You look back at Steve, who is still standing in the doorway, and like someone suddenly caught doing something, he quickly clears his throat.
“I’ll put out a towel for you,” he says, then walks into the room across from the guest room.
You just watch his tall figure, the way his back tenses under his jacket, the way his fingers glide over the dark-colored towels, his perfect hair and face. In the next moment, Steve looks back at you and lifts a dark green towel.
“Found one. I’ll leave it here, and then you can go take a shower. I’ll be downstairs making soup in the meantime,” he says from the hallway.
“Okay, thanks,” you reply, carefully stepping into Steve’s room and immediately looking around. Posters on the walls, records scattered on the floor, a few stacks of books lined up beside his bed. Everything about it was so Steve.
Stepping out of the shower, you wrap the towel around yourself, and by now you smell completely like him. Fresh mint mixed with a masculine body wash. You leave the bathroom, glance down the hallway, then hurry into your room to change into your pajamas. On the bed, however, lies a blue sweatshirt with a big Hawkins logo across it. You run your hand over the fabric, smile faintly, then put it on along with your pajama bottoms.
A phone rests on the dresser, and like every evening, you call your parents.
“Hi Mom! What’s up?” you say into the phone, but your mother’s voice comes through choppy.
“Everything’s okay, sweetheart…” she says, but there’s a hint of sadness in her tone.
“Mom, what’s wrong?” you ask, alarmed.
“Listen, honey, I’m not sure we’ll make it home this week. Our flight was canceled, and they’re predicting a massive snowstorm for the entire week. No planes are taking off. I’m so sor—” the line cuts out.
“Mom? Mom?” you call into the phone, but it’s no use. You hang up and start fiddling with the sleeve of the sweatshirt, hoping it will distract you, but the tears find their way out anyway. Salty tears burn your eyes, and between the exhaustion and everything else, you don’t fight them anymore.
You cry quietly in a silent, unfamiliar room. Your head aches, your eyes are swollen and red, and what bothers you the most is that it’s all drying into Steve’s sweatshirt. You take a deep breath, sniff loudly, then reach up and begin undoing the braid in your hair.
“Hey,” Steve says as he comes in, and thankfully you’re turned away from him. “The soup’s ready. Chicken soup...I hope you like it,” he laughs awkwardly, but when you don’t respond, worry creeps into his voice. “Hey… did something happen?”
You hear the floor creak beneath his steps and quickly wipe away your last tear.
“Wait a second… were you crying?”
“No,” you answer hoarsely, pulling your hair into your face and finding it more important to pull on your sock than to look at Steve.
“Did something happen,” he asks gently as he steps closer and slowly sits on the bed, “or is it just… everything?”
You stand up immediately and walk around the bed toward the door, but a warm hand gently catches yours, stopping you.
“Hey. Look at me. You can tell me anything, you know that,” he says softly, and it sends a sharp, sudden heartbeat through you.
You turn your face toward him, revealing your tear-filled eyes, and Steve’s expression melts into a pale, gentle smile as he carefully pulls you closer.
“I can offer a hug,” he adds quickly, defensive all of a sudden. “You don’t have to take it if you don’t want to.”
You nod eagerly.
“You want one? Really? Okay… come here,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms gently around you as you cling tightly around his neck.
“It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you. Let it out,” he soothes you, slowly rubbing your back in small circles.
You stay like that for a while. Eventually your hands loosen around his neck, and you pull back.
“Better?” he asks.
You don’t answer. You just look at him.
His big brown eyes sparkle as he searches your face. His hands slide a few centimeters lower on your back, and you don’t mind. Your faces are closer than usual, your breaths mingling, and slowly your gaze drifts from his eyes to his lips.
You act faster than you think, and before you realize it, your lips are on his. It’s short, almost just a peck. But when you pull away, Steve’s face flushes pink. He doesn’t know what to make of it.
You kiss him again, more firmly this time, and now Steve doesn’t hesitate. At first it’s just your lips moving together, then Steve uses his tongue to explore your mouth while his arms tighten, gripping your sweatshirt. You run your fingers through his hair to deepen the kiss, your other hand pulling him closer.
“Wait…” Steve pulls back, lips red as he looks at you. “This isn’t just because you were crying, right? Because if it is… then I still wouldn’t be able to resist you.”
This time, he initiates the kiss, his hands slowly sliding under your sweatshirt. His hands are warm. Just like his heart. And suddenly, you don’t mind anymore that Dustin called him.